


you drew stars around my scars

by archers_and_spies



Series: when you are young, they assume you know nothing [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Best Friends to Lovers, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Song: cardigan (Taylor Swift)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27120892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archers_and_spies/pseuds/archers_and_spies
Summary: There’s truth in his eyes as he looks into hers. But there’s also naivety, innocence, and everything Natasha was brought up against. These are the people who get their hearts broken eventually, the day they’re forced to learn that nothing lasts forever.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Sharon Carter/Maria Hill
Series: when you are young, they assume you know nothing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1979620
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	you drew stars around my scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashlearose13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashlearose13/gifts).



> ASHLEAAAA HAPPY BIRTHDAY im gonna save the rest for later bc you probably just wanna get on with the fic (which is very unpolished btw so be gentle) so here ❤️ for u ❤️  
> -  
> *edit: it’s morning and I’m at school but I just wanted to say sorry for the weird spacing i have no idea how the rich text editor works

_Vintage tee, brand new phone, high heels on cobblestones_

_When you are young, they assume you know nothing._

**——**

23rd August

Dear Diary,

I drew Uncle Ivan a picture today. He didn’t let me show it to him. It’s fine, not like I expected him to let me. He’s drunk, anyway. For the third day of the week, actually, and it’s only Thursday.

A boy moved in on the street today! I caught a glimpse through the window before I made dinner. He’s blond, around the same age as I am. The town’s small, so he’ll probably go to the same school as me.

Uncle Ivan’s been letting me write in a diary because it lets me practice my English, but he probably won’t be happy if he finds out I’ve been writing about him too, or that I’ve been calling myself “Natasha” without telling him. I need to go now—I don’t want to get scolded again for forgetting to cook breakfast.

Natasha

**——**

Natasha first meets Clint when she’s eleven.

**——**

Gathering all the empty bags in her arms Ivan had thrown at her before ushering her out the door, Natasha looks up at the sky. It’s already past midnight—she’d glanced at the clock on the wall in a hurry—so of course it’s pitch black, but there’s something about the way the air tastes that suggests it’s about to rain. In that case, she’d better buy everything in time and rush back, or Ivan would scold her for getting her clothes wet. Natasha picks up her pace.

Not that she’s not used to it, but she really thinks she deserves a break from everything Ivan’s been making her do—yes, the store’s open 24/7, but she needs sleep too, considering how tomorrow’s the first day of school. Her mind fills with thoughts, angry thoughts, and the second she becomes distracted, she trips over the cobblestones on the road.

 _Damn it, Natasha._ It’s dark, really dark, and she doesn’t see the bags anywhere—and it doesn’t hurt too much, but there’s a sting on her right knee and it’s most likely bleeding. _Damn it. You screwed up. Ivan won’t be pleased. Why? Бог, why—_

A loud crash comes from her left, and her head jerks up towards the house beside her. There’s nothing else for a good three minutes, and even Natasha is scared to make a sound, but then a door opens, the bushes of the house’s garden rustle, and Natasha hears a tiny sigh.

Curious, she gets up slowly and walks in that direction until her outstretched hands reach a tall fence with slits in between. The person who the sigh came from starts crying quietly.

“Um… hello?” Natasha asks quietly, not wanting to scare them. “Are you… are you okay?”

No response. The crying continues.

Maybe they just need someone to sit in silence with them. That’s okay. She’ll stay. No one should be crying this late at night alone.

A light turns on on the second floor of the house, lighting up the window. Natasha, looking through the slits of the fence, sees a boy on the other side of the fence, a mark on his arm that’s going to become a bruise by the time morning comes.

Wait. This is the new family that moved in just a week ago. But why—

The boy shifts a bit to his left and sees her looking through, right at him. He jumps so hard that he lands in the bushes.

“It’s okay,” Natasha scrambles to explain. “I heard crashing, and—”

He motions for her to stop speaking. She does, albeit in a bit of confusion, then watches as he opens his fists to reveal the hearing aids he’d been clutching. He puts them on sheepishly.

“Sorry about that,” he says, straining to stay quiet but just enough to let her hear. “What are you doing out at this hour—are you bleeding?”

“Oh,” Natasha says, looking down. “Yeah, I guess, but I’m alright. I’ll wash it once I get back to the house. Uh, I heard a crash coming from your house. Are _you_ okay?”

He shakes his head once. “No—I mean, yeah. I’m used to it. My dad, he’s like this nearly every night, so…”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all good. Are those your bags?” He asks, gesturing to the grocery bags strewn across the ground.

Remembering what she’d come out for in the first place, her heart rate begins to pick up, a thousand worries going through her head, about her scraped knee, about Ivan, about having to attend school in a few hours.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the boy says, then disappears back into the bushes. The fence clicks a few seconds later, and he steps out onto the road. He picks up the bags and hands them to her with a smile.

**——**

“I’m Clint,” he says at the register while the cashier checks everything out, nearly dropping asleep during the process. They’ve been silent ever since they entered the store, Clint wheeling the trolley around while Natasha puts food into it, his presence calming her more than it should.

“Natasha,” she replies. “Uncle Ivan calls me Natalia, but that’s why I don’t like it.”

“Natasha’s nice,” he says. “I’m new, actually. Moved here from Iowa. School starts—”

“Tomorrow, yeah.”

“Well, technically today.”

“No need to stress me out further, Clint,” she says, but there’s a smirk on her face. She likes the way his name rolls off her tongue. _Clint._

She arrives back at the house at one, soaking wet from the rain, but the words Ivan spits at her and the alcohol she uses to clean her cut don’t sting one bit. After all, she’s made a new friend tonight. She goes to bed with a smile.

**——**

“You have to promise to never tell a single soul,” she says earnestly. “No one can ever know. Well, except for you, but I do owe you for helping me with my exercise books in the hallway last week.”

“You don’t,” Clint says, maybe for the hundredth time of the week, but he follows her anyway, from the back door of Ivan’s house down the twists and turns she’s familiarised herself with like the back of her hand, all the way till the cobblestones of the ground meet sticks and soil. 

“Do you trust me?” Natasha asks. Clint’s looking up at the forest, mouth slightly open.

“Hell, yeah. This is awesome, Nat! Feels like we’re going on an adventure, just like in those movies.”

She smiles and shakes her head a bit as she leads him down the path which technically isn’t really a path. _Nat_.

It’s not too deep into the trees. Once Clint catches sight of it, he gasps in wonder. “No way.”

“Welcome, Clint Barton, to what I call my secret place.” She spreads her arms and starts spreading out the mats she’d brought, secretly smug that she’d finally gotten to say his full name out loud. While he’d been helping her with her exercise books, she’d paid attention to the covers of his. “I’m not sold on the name yet, though it has already been three years since I found it.”

Natasha watches Clint take in the glory of the forest clearing she’d stumbled upon as a little kid, the small pond, the fallen leaves from the trees, rays of the afternoon sun streaming onto the grass just perfectly. 

“Natasha, it’s beautiful. Wait—” his face lights up— “this could be our Neverland!”

She frowns. “Neverland?”

He stares incredulously. “You’ve never seen Peter Pan?”

“Peter who?”

“Oh, gosh, it was kind of a big deal where we used to live—here, sit and I’ll tell you the story.”

And tell the story Clint does. Two hours pass by in a whirlwind of fairies and pixie dust and magical adventures and never growing up. Neverland. 

By the time he finishes, Natasha’s mind is a blur, scrambling to connect dots. “Wait, so—that’s it? Wendy grows up and never sees Peter again?”

Clint’s face falls. “That’s my least favourite part of the story. But Natasha, I promise, that’s not going to happen to us. Never. You and I will be friends forever.”

There’s truth in his eyes as he looks into hers. But there’s also naivety, innocence, and everything Natasha was brought up against. These are the people who get their hearts broken eventually, the day they’re forced to learn that nothing lasts forever.

She manages a convincing smile. “Friends forever,” she echoes, hoping that the universe is somehow listening.

**——**

They bring board games to their Neverland. When those start getting old, they start inventing new games of their own. A hide-and-seek game gone wrong makes Natasha cry with relief when he finally finds her deep in the woods, cowering from creatures that aren’t there. She works on perfecting different movements of each sign every day after school. He shows her how to craft a makeshift bow and arrow out of branches, places his hands on her elbow joints as he stands behind her whispering instructions into her ear. The smile on his face when she hits the bullseye of their painted target on a tree for the first time _glows_.

To say that she and Clint become something as simple as _best friends_ would be like describing the sun as the size of a pea. They’ve transcended reality, have created a whole world for themselves, that it’s just simply not enough. It doesn’t bother her too much, anyway—Natasha thinks it feels right how there’s no word big enough to sum it all up. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Clint says softly. Natasha glances up, pulled out of her mini trip down memory lane. Two years may not be a lot, but they’ve both gone through things they wish they hadn’t, and in a way Clint’s the only one who can understand that. She hasn’t scared him off yet. He’s still here.

She snuggles closer to him on the couch of his house’s basement and lays her head gently on his shoulder, nearly falling asleep to the lull of his heart. Sneaking out tonight hadn’t been too tricky, and she’d easily do it all over again just for the little box Clint calls a projector shining a spotlight onto the wall, just for watching little people dance around and sing silly songs, just for feeling Clint smile into her hair whenever the characters crack a joke.

“I’ve always wanted to show this movie to you,” he continues. “It’s just so… untouchable, I think. We’ll grow up and the world will keep spinning, but fairytales and stories, they stay the same.”

“Just like us?” Natasha smirks up at him. It’s become a sort of running joke to them—the kind you only understand when you have to pull your sleeves down to hide bruises every other day, when you’ve grown used to being silent at night just in case you wake someone and he hasn’t slept off the alcohol yet—the thing is, of course they’re going to grow up. It’s next to impossible to stay the same when they’re… _them_. Sometimes it’s just nice to laugh about it, even though it’s nothing to laugh about. Just to know there’s someone right here who gets you.

“Just like us,” Clint agrees. “We’ll do our best.”

At this point, Natasha’s heartbeat has tuned out the sounds of the movie. Clint feels like everything safe she’s ever wanted. Her hands curl into his shirt, and then he kisses her for maybe two seconds.

“Nat.” He presses his forehead against hers, and she closes her eyes and sighs like she’s finally found where she belongs.

_Thump. Thump._

It takes Natasha longer than it should to figure out that isn’t her heart going erratic. When they break apart, she sees her own fear mirrored in Clint’s eyes.

A voice travels down to the basement, along with two pairs of hurried footsteps. “Sir, you can’t just barge into my house like that—Natasha’s not with my son, goodness—”

“Natalia,” Ivan corrects Edith with a snarl. Natasha’s heart seizes up and she grips Clint’s hand tight. There’s nowhere left to go.

When he barges in, he doesn’t go straight for her, instead stands at the base of the stairs and fumes. “What do you think you’re doing?” He snaps in his thick accent and she flinches. “I have been to _every house_ in this neighbourhood, looking for you.”

“Natash—Natalia,” says Edith, surprised. “I didn’t know you were here. Clint, you should’ve told me; I would’ve baked some cookies or—”

“You are thirteen years old!” Ivan continues yelling, and this time even Edith jumps a bit. “You should not be sneaking out. And watching cartoons too. You are not a baby anymore. Стыд.”

“Извините, Uncle Ivan,” Natasha says, hanging her head and altering her accent to match his. It’s a psychological trick she’s learned. Something about Ivan’s undying patriotism, or whatever.

“Sir, it wasn’t her fault,” Clint says, and Natasha snaps her head up. _What are you doing_ , she tries to sign subtly, but he continues. “It was all me. I convinced her to come. Please don’t… punish her.”

Ivan doesn’t say anything, but he walks up sharply to Natasha and pulls her off the couch by her elbow roughly with a grunt.

**——**

The walk back is silent, up until Ivan stops at the front door. He lets go of Natasha’s arm, still not facing her.

“Pack your bags,” he says crudely. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

Natasha’s world stops. The air becomes too thick for her to breathe in. 

“Leaving? Where?” She asks, dreading the answer.

Ivan inhales a breath deeply, then lets it all go quickly. “Home.”

**——**

Russia is cold.

Ivan leads her to a big set of double doors. There’s a dark-haired boy waiting inside the room, maybe five years older than her, fidgeting in a chair. He looks up when they walk in, Ivan’s hand on the back of her thick coat.

“Natalia, this is James,” Ivan says. “You are going to marry him someday.”

He turns and walks out of the room. The doors close and there’s an audible click of a lock bolting into place. Natalia— _Natasha, damn it_ —walks to the empty chair opposite him, takes off her coat and hangs it on the back of it. She doesn’t sit.

James frowns. He mutters something that sounds like, “but you’re a kid,” to himself, then shakes his head and stands.

“Hello, Natalia,” he says in a soft voice, extending his right hand. “I’m James. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 _And I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you_ , Natasha wants to say. The silence hangs thick between them, echoing off the walls of the room. James lets his arm fall.

“If you don’t want to sit in your chair, we can sit on the floor,” James suggests. That she can work with. If she imagines hard enough she can pretend she’s sitting on a picnic mat, the boy opposite her blond and smiling instead of brunet with pity in his eyes.

Once they’re settled, James glances behind at the camera in the corner of the ceiling, then leans in. “Listen. I know how _mean_ the adults can be, for lack of a better word. I don’t know if I can get you out of this, but know this: I would never force you to marry me… Natasha.”

She nods after a few seconds. “I believe you.”

“Good,” he smiles a genuine smile. “Well… friends, then?”

“Friends,” she agrees. “What happened to your arm?”

“Oh, you’re an observant little girl,” James says. His left arm is mostly covered with a long leather sleeve, but his hand is made of silver-grey metal that stretches up into his jacket. “I, uh, lost it in a fight. You wanna see?”

Natasha nods, and he takes off his jacket. There’s a red star painted on where his deltoid muscle would be. James flexes his fingers a few times.

“The star looks cool,” she comments. “How…”

“The Russians did this to me. I nearly died. They saved my life, but doomed my fate,” he explains. “I don’t remember much from before, just a few faces. One face. Natasha, you have to understand.” He looks her in the eye. “I’d do it all over again. Fighting beside him was the honour of my life.”

“So you were fighting someone with... _him_ , got hurt, and then they took you,” she says, and he nods. “Why didn’t he come back for you?”

“Maybe he did,” James shrugs. “But back then he had a mission to finish, people to save. He’s probably dead by now.”

Natasha can’t help herself from asking, “Who is he?”

There’s a smirk in his eyes now. “Natasha, do you know what the word _soulmate_ means?”

Russia is cold. Russia is snowy, and Russia is the place where Natasha learns that there is, after all, a word for what she and Clint have. Like the bolt on the door barring her from the outside world, she hears everything click at once.

**——**

“Natasha Romanoff? Is that—oh, my God.”

The day is September 1st, the weather is fine and the books in her bag feel like stones weighing her down as she walks towards the gates. Natasha turns to see Maria Hill, her former Chemistry partner, staring at her open-mouthed, arms linked with Sharon Carter.

“You’re back!” Maria exclaims.

“Hi, Maria,” Natasha manages. She nods to Carter, who nods back.

“It’s—it’s been a year, Nat, I—” Her face falls suddenly— “he’s not been faring well. Does he know yet?”

Okay, _so_ Clint was the only thing she ever thought about back in Russia. _So_ her memories of him alone powered her through the bleak thing that was life without Clint Barton. But has she been dreading seeing him again? Has she been avoiding him because what if the _incident_ ruined their perfect, idealistic friendship, and is he going to be pissed at her for showing up without a word of warning?

(The answers to all these questions are yes. She’s not proud of it either.)

“He’ll know soon enough,” Natasha replies.

“We can walk with you into school,” Maria offers. “Where were you? Last year in French no one scored a perfect mark, and Mr Robert was pissed. I bet if you’d been here, you would’ve saved the entire class’ asses…”

Maria doesn’t even give her time to breathe or comprehend her words until they reach the corridor. She goes silent abruptly, and Natasha’s heart drops before she even looks up.

“Tasha,” he says in this shocked, strangled voice, and it makes her hate herself and want to run in the opposite direction until she’s left out of breath, but he runs to _her_ and sweeps her up in a bone-crushing hug. She doesn’t even notice she’s crying until she lets out a sob into his shoulder.

“Clint,” she’s saying. “ _Clint_.”

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters after pulling back, hands on her cheeks and behind her neck and running up and down her arms. “Shit, Nat.”

She cards her fingers through his hair, at a loss of words. “You got taller.”

He laughs in relief, and God, if she hadn’t missed him like hell.

All it takes is for him to bump his shoulder against hers and ask pretending his voice doesn’t crack midway, “How you been, Romanoff?” And everything comes rushing back. Clint Barton is Natasha’s soulmate, she’s sure of it, and being back in his arms feels like jigsaw pieces fitting into each other perfectly. 

And soulmates always find their way home to each other.

**——**

That night, the fall air is dry and crisp. Natasha decides to get a headstart on the various pieces of homework the class has been assigned, even though none of them are due the next day. She twirls her pen around her fingers, doing anything but focusing, which is why she initially thinks the thuds she hears are just results of her overactive imagination. 

Until more thuds keep coming, and it becomes obvious that whoever’s causing them is trying to do it at a pattern—Morse code? 

...Very poor, lousy Morse code?

She rolls her eyes when he gets to the second _A_ of her name and walks over to the window to open it.

Clint’s panting underneath her window with a pile of pebbles at his feet. “Hey, Juliet,” he grins up at her, and she beams back before climbing out her window. 

Natasha had done this many times before, and her memory never fails her. Her legs feel a little longer than they used to be, but they still find the little crevices between the bricks easily, and when she’s at a safe height a few short seconds later she jumps onto the cobblestones of the ground. 

“Hi,” she says, a little breathlessly.

“Hi.” His smile is a little nervous, and she wants to reach her hand out to touch his face, tell him he shouldn’t worry at all, that she’s still _her_. He brings his arm out from where he’d been hiding it behind his back, and she can vaguely make out the outline of a small bundle of petals in his palm.

“I got you a rose,” he says shyly. “Reminded me of you.”

“Because of the thorns?” She raises an eyebrow, but lets him tuck it gently behind her ear anyway.

Clint takes her hand tentatively and leads her back into their Neverland. The moonlight’s not too bright, but even in the darkness everything is familiar, like Clint’s heartbeat. 

“I haven’t been here in a year,” Natasha says. Clint squeezes her hand.

“I came here all the time, when you weren’t here,” he confesses. “I’d pretend you were.”

“Me too. Except the place I went was far less pleasant.”

Clint frowns in concern, dropping her hand almost immediately. “Did he punish you? Did he… hit you? Was it because of me?”

“Not too much,” Natasha tries to reassure him. “And no, it wasn’t because of you. Clint, I’m not, like, mad or anything.”

He exhales. “Good. Because I really, _really_ missed you.”

“I really, really missed you too,” she breathes, and then his lips are on hers again, a bit unsure but natural and right, just like the first time. He’s grown, too—she can taste it.

They pull apart and she wraps her arms around his neck, taking her time to really hold him without having to worry about lessons or school bells, because before they were this, before the flirting and kisses and hand-holding, they were soulmates first, and it’ll always stay that way, no matter the nature of their relationship.

Clint shifts his head to kiss her temple softly. Natasha is home. 

**——**

It’s good; it really is. A little over one uninterrupted year of their honeymoon phase. Passing notes in class, pairing up with each other whenever they have to do group work, hallway kisses—they’re disgusting, really, and Maria points it out to them at least four times every week. (“You were literally just making out with Sharon in the supply closet.” “I don’t see how that’s relevant, Romanoff.”)

“Okay, so,” Clint says one night after Natasha’s climbed down from her window. “We’re not going to Neverland tonight.”

“What? Where are we going then?”

Clint leads her around the house to reveal a car parked on the road. “Anywhere you want, babe.”

“Clint—” She lets out a surprised laugh— “you got your license? That’s amazing.”

“Mom let me borrow it for a while. The world’s ours for the taking,” he says with a soft smile on his face.

“Oh, you spoil me, Clint Barton.” She climbs into the passenger seat of the car, even though she well knows they won’t actually go anywhere tonight and risk waking Ivan. They both pretend they don’t smell the leftover stink of alcohol and yelling and Harold-ness.

“Only the best for my girl.” He grins at her from the driver’s seat and she feels warmth bloom inside her chest. She hopes he knows she’d walk through Hell a million times just for that grin he reserves for her specifically. “How was your day?”

She shoves him playfully. “Idiot, you know how my day was. You were with me the whole time.”

“You’re right. I’m just in love with your voice,” Clint says and leans over to kiss her sweetly, but they both freeze in the middle of it when the force of his words hit them full-on.

They part hesitantly. “And you, too,” he continues, looking into her eyes. “I’m in love with you. You should know by now. I hope that’s cool?”

This time Natasha initiates the kiss. It’s not that she doesn’t want to say it back, Lord knows she’s been dying to ever since they were thirteen, but she can’t—she just can’t. Everything she loves gets taken away from her. She’s nearly lost him once already.

**——**

He climbs in through her window whenever it gets really bad.

Tonight, he’s shaking, and he’s barely made it through before collapsing onto her bedroom floor. Natasha rushes to his side, but he recoils from her arms and spends five whole seconds moving to sit up on the floor against her bed.

“Clint,” Natasha says, hands hovering and looking for something, anything to do. “Clint, look at me.”

He does. The fear in his eyes crushes her soul.

“You’re gonna be alright,” she says, voice rising an octave. “Just—breathe, okay?”

He manages to nod his head yes. She waits maybe two minutes to ask again, “What happened?”

“He was drunk,” he starts to say. “He slapped me, and then Mom told him to stop and—he started hitting her—she screamed at me to run. I don’t—I don’t even know if she’s okay—”

He’s rocking himself by now. Natasha’s hands curl into fists, nails digging into her palms. “Clint, I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go. _Please_ —don’t make me go, I’ve got nowhere else—”

“I’m not gonna make you leave, Clint,” Natasha assures him. “Stay. Please stay. I love you.”

He looks up, lips parting slightly. “I love you too. Tasha.”

Her hands go to touch his shoulders, but she stops. “May I?”

He reaches out to take her hands with his, and she grasps them tightly. “Really?” He asks timidly.

“Yeah, really,” she exhales. “Stay here for the night. Don’t worry too much.” She gets him into her bed, then climbs in beside him under the covers.

Natasha holds Clint until morning, locking the sound of his breathing away into a little box in her heart. Whispering that she loves him over and over again, even though his hearing aids are on the bedside table. She hopes he feels it in the way she kisses his hair and holds his hand.

**——**

New York is a fresh breath of air. Everyone around them is busy and fast and trying to catch the next train. It leaves the whole class, including the teacher, a little dizzy, but if Natasha could stay forever on their hotel balcony with Clint, watching the little cars below them and not worrying about how he’d get back to his own room after having snuck over, she would. Something about being in their own bubble and escaping, the way they’ve been since they were little.

“Alright, everybody take five,” Mr Thompson says when he gets a call. “Walk around, look at the plants, but don’t go too far.”

The afternoon sun is high in the sky the day the class visits the High Line. Natasha and Clint walk over to her roommate Gamora and her boyfriend Peter, who are unwrapping and eating sandwiches together. In the distance, Sharon points out a bush filled with orange and pink flowers to Maria.

“Tonight when we get back, you owe me one of those sodas from the fancy vending machine in the lobby,” Gamora’s saying to Peter, and he scoffs.

“I don’t get a free pass?”

“Not unless you’re Groot, no.”

“Groot is a _plant_!”

“I don’t blame her,” Clint says. “Her sandwiches are killer. Gamora, if you give me one of those, I will love you forever.”

She’s reaching into her bag when Mr Thompson comes over, paler than he usually is. “Uh, Mr Barton?”

“That’s me, Sir,” Clint says, frowning slightly.

Mr Thompson puts his phone back into his pocket awkwardly, then looks at Clint with pity.

**——**

When they get back, it’s already dark. There’s yellow tape around the crash site, not too far from the house. From outside they can see splatters of blood on the seats inside the car. Clint glares at the tree Harold had driven into, and Natasha puts a hand on his back.

He lifts his head a bit to acknowledge the Sheriff. “Barney?”

The Sheriff sighs. “Kid, your brother went missing six years ago. No use dwelling on it.”

“Right, of course.” Clint folds his arms around his stomach. “I don’t know, I just thought maybe—he’d hear, and come—I don’t know.” 

“I am sorry, Clint,” he says again. “Now, it’s getting late. I’ll leave you two out here. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“We won’t. Thank you,” Natasha says.

The Sheriff starts shaking his head when he walks away. “The son of a bitch got what he deserved. But, God, Edith was _good_ …”

Clint picks a nearby tree to lean on and starts muttering. “Fuck. Fuck.”

She approaches him silently to embrace him. His face is twisted in pain when she pulls back, and she runs her hand through his hair gently.

“Nat.”

“Yeah?”

“I—“ he falters, and his gaze drops. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“It’s okay,” she reassures. “That’s normal. That’s totally—“

“Nat. Natasha,” he interrupts. “I don’t—I think I might need… some space. Some time.”

Natasha takes a step back, her heart already beginning to fall. “Oh.”

“Nat. Don’t—please don’t take this the wrong way. I love you. I would die for you. But I just… don’t really know who I am anymore.”

 _I do_ , Natasha longs to say. _You’re the same kid you were when we met for the first time. Not wanting to grow up. You love archery, and indie artists. You love me. And you’re scared. Always so, so scared._

Is it unfair, that they know each other better than they know themselves?

She lets out a humourless laugh. “We are two messed up people.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Yeah, we are. You know you’re everything I have left, right?”

“No, I get it. It shouldn’t be that way,” Natasha agrees.

He sighs, vulnerable and lost and all the anchors in his life gone, and then shrugs. “I guess I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”

She leans forward to kiss his cheek, lingering like the blurred edges of a shadow under the faint moonlight. Her vision turns to liquid when she walks away from the best thing that’s ever happened to her, and she blinks hard and fast until she’s safely out of his sight. She cries herself to sleep and she arrives at school the next morning earlier than she ever has to talk to the teacher, fabricating some crap reason to switch homerooms. Miraculously, he agrees, and thus begins her Clint Barton-free life.

(It sucks.)

**——**

Natasha stands against the wall of the school gym, fiddling with the hem of her black dress. She knows she’s never been lacking in the looks department, has sensed the stares whenever she walks down the corridors at school, and so far at least two boys have politely come up to her and asked for a dance. At least four have done it not so nicely.

Still. It’s hard to be here when she really doesn’t feel like socialising. Guess that’s another thing Clint took from her.

She’s seriously considering simply walking out that door alone the same way she’d come, but then someone taps her on her shoulder and she whirls around almost immediately, disappointed that it’s not Clint, but then—

“ _James_?”

“Hi, Natasha,” James beams. “It’s been a while. Care to dance?”

She takes his hand, and he leads her out onto the floor along with everyone else. Dancing with him is easy, unlike the riddle of feelings that rushes into her whenever she thinks about Clint. She almost doesn’t notice her favourite song coming on the speakers.

Natasha is still in shock. “How are you alive? How are you here? How did they _let_ you in here? Aren’t you, like, thirty?”

James rolls his eyes. “Thirty is pushing it. I don’t… actually know how old I am, but I know I don’t look thirty. Stop lying.”

“Whatever you say,” she says. “I… we thought you were dead. I woke up one day, and you were just gone. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No. No, Natasha, it makes all the sense in the world. You see…” he smiles with a little excitement. It boggles Natasha how different he is from the man she’d met three years ago, but then he continues explaining. “I found him. I got a lead that he was alive. I mean, I couldn’t believe it, but I wasn’t going to just dismiss it.

“It took me two long years to find the man I loved. Natasha, he remembered every single detail about me.” James’ voice cracks a little. “I didn’t even know my favourite colour was red. Can you believe that? Red, the colour of blood. And then he said, it’s okay if I wanted to change my favourite colour, that he would love me no matter what. He loves me, Natasha.”

“James, that’s amazing,” Natasha replies sincerely. “You really are soulmates. Plus, the both of you got me out of an arranged marriage, so double amazing.”

He smiles. “So, that’s what I’ve been up to. How about you and your own mini soulmate?”

“Well, first of all, we’re not very mini anymore,” she points out. “And, um, we aren’t really talking at the moment.”

“Oh. That’s okay. I have faith in you guys, and I’d really love to meet him someday. In the meantime…” James turns backwards, gesturing a blond man in a black suit to come over. “Natasha, this is Steve Rogers.”

Steve Rogers is kind, funny, generous and hopelessly, irrevocably in love with James Barnes. He calls him Bucky and looks at him like he’s never done anything wrong in his life, ever, even when all three of them know the truth is the exact opposite. They can’t stay for long, James says, they’re technically on the run. But they do promise to visit every once in a while, and Natasha’s probably a bit too excited than she should be about having fugitive friends. It at least takes her mind off of Clint for a while.

**——**

The August weather is hot and sticky. Natasha stays indoors for most of the holiday, mostly because she’s too scared to run into Clint. So she might be a bit of a scaredy cat, but she’s known him for over half a decade. She deserves this time to herself, she thinks.

Natasha’s new phone blips multiple times. She picks it up.

**maria h**

\- nat you will not believe what i just saw

\- nat

\- natasha

what -

??? -

\- you know bobbi morse? the v rich girl whos a grade older

ive heard of her -

i think -

why -

\- i saw her in a car with clint

ok and? -

\- i—they were k wording

what -

\- they were c*noodling

did u censor canoodling -

\- idk i panicked

\- it’s true sharon can testify

\- it was at the mall

\- nat

\- nat???

\- dont do anything stupid

**——**

_And when I felt like I was an old cardigan under someone’s bed_

_You put me on and said I was your favourite_

**Author's Note:**

> hiii this is very exciting!! because i am making my debut as no longer the thirteen year old fanfic writer but the fouRTEEN YEAR OLD FANFIC WRITER !!! also i know the ending is kinda weird but there will be more to come and i had no time to polish this bc it's a quarter to midnight so  
> n e ways ashlea i love u so much u are one of the most elite people in my life and i hope u liked this and i hope u have the best day ever. lemme just tell u writing this fic was not easy at ALL i had to squeeze in time after like midnights when i had an ongoing flurry of tests 🤠 but it was worth it i hate math anyway and i had to lie my way out of writing ***** *** because of this yeah the doc i was talking about in that twitter group chat was actually this doc ha ha 😭 u were so close to figuring it out and i froze BUT ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS PLEASE HAVE THE BEST DAY EVER I LOVE YOU AND I NEED TO GO TO SLEEP


End file.
